


Hope I Die Before I Get Old

by foxcatcher



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Mods and Rockers, Battle of Brighton Beach, British Slang, Brynmawr, Community: wrestlingkink, Corner Shop, Derogatory Language Against the Welsh, Fights, Flash is a Mod, Gen, Immortality, Kinda Kayfabe Compliant?, Light Angst, M/M, Mark is... Not, Maybe Gav is Wild Boar Maybe Not, Mod Slang, Mods and Rockers, Prompt Fill, Suggestive Biting, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Rocker Gangs, Vampires, lots of implied stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxcatcher/pseuds/foxcatcher
Summary: Flash pulled over as soon as he could see the sea. There was a warm breeze in the air, the water a beautiful shade of dark blue against the grey-brown of the pebbly beach and the white-painted pier. It seemed almost unbelievable that they had been in drab, old Brynmawr just a few hours before.-It's May 1964, and Flash Morgan Webster finds himself on Brighton Beach, wishing he'd stayed home after all.
Relationships: Mark Andrews/Flash Morgan Webster
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: The Wrestling Kink Meme kicks out at 2!





	Hope I Die Before I Get Old

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt from the kinkmeme - https://wrestlingkink2.dreamwidth.org/423.html?thread=698535#cmt698535 - which suggested the reason behind Flash being a mod is that he was around for the real thing, having been turned into a vampire in the 60s, and has kept the mod fires burning ever since. I'm a real sucker for historical prompts and trying to make sense of silly gimmicks, which ended up with me placing Flash on Brighton Beach in 1964, right in the middle of the worst rivalry between the mods and the rockers. I also really wanted to give Flash's moped a name...
> 
> Title taken from "My Generation" by The Who. Because it was either that or the Small Faces.

He'd never meant to be there in the first place.

Honestly, Flash had been perfectly happy with his plan of spending the Bank Holiday at home, maybe going to the cinema or visiting his grandma at the most, but when Gav had suggested they spend the weekend riding Flash’s scooter down to Brighton, he’d found it hard to say no. After all, Gav was his best friend – they’d known each other ever since they were just “Gavin” and “Morgan,” the only mods in Brynmawr. Which they admittedly still were, but at least they had each other’s company now. And to Gav’s credit, most of the trip had been lovely. Flash had been pretty hesitant about driving his scooter so far when he’d barely taken her out of the county before, but it had been worth it, stopping at service stations for coffee or laybys to enjoy the view, watching the landscape slowly change around them as they crossed into England, Gav yelling excitedly in his ear.

It was barely past one when they finally drove into Brighton, the sun high in the sky. The town was seething with life as the zipped through the streets, bright colours and signs wherever they turned and more people than Flash had ever seen in one place – pensioners strolling on the promenade and couples window-shopping and families queueing for ice cream despite the still-cool May weather. There was even the odd group of fellow mods, all gabbed up for the weekend just like them.

Flash pulled over as soon as he could see the sea. Leaning Matilda against the low stone wall separating upper levels of the promenade from the beach, he pulled off his helmet, the one Gav kept teasing him about, and gazed out over the long stretch in front of them. There was a warm breeze in the air, the water a beautiful shade of dark blue against the grey-brown of the pebbly beach and the white-painted pier. It seemed almost unbelievable that they had been in drab, old Brynmawr just a few hours before.

“So, was it a good idea, or was it a good idea, Flash?” Gav asked smugly, smoothing out his coat before joining his friend by the wall.

“It was,” Flash smiled, too happy to bother feigning annoyance. And it really had been a good idea – one of the better Gav had had, although that wasn’t saying much. The mod let his eyes wander over the cafes and souvenir shops dotting the walkway and all the smiling, summery people milling about, smelling of sea salt and chips and suntan lotion. Sod it, it had been a _great_ idea.

They were standing towards the end of the beach, by a quiet bend in the road, separated from the heaviest crowds. As Flash turned around, craning his neck to get a proper look at everything, he noticed a small corner shop right behind them.

“Mind Tilda for a second, would you?” Flash hung his helmet on the handlebar, already walking towards the shop.

“Right, like anyone’s going to steal that rust heap,” Gav snorted at him, but stayed put besides the scooter, hopping up to sit on the low wall.

“You monster!” Flash gasped, clutching at his chest in mock-horror while Gav only cackled. “Don’t say that in front of her, you’ll hurt her feelings!"

-

The bell jingled thinly as Flash entered the shop. Inside, it was packed to the absolute gills with stuff, from beach toys to newspapers to a whole wall of brightly coloured pick-n-mix in glass jars. It smelled like cigarettes and dust, both swirling in the thin rays of sunshine that managed to creep through the overcrowded window display, the rest of the shop lit by yellow-y light tubes hung in the ceiling. Careful not to topple anything, Flash squeezed past racks and cardboard adverts until he reached the cooler at the back of the shop, humming to himself as he grabbed a few cans of beer. There was a radio playing somewhere on the other side of the shelves, a half-familiar tune accompanied by the hum of the light tubes.

Soon enough, Flash found the source of the music and the smoke. A middle-aged woman with mousy brown lacquered hair stood behind the counter, cigarette perched between her fingers, peering at Flash with sharp eyes as the mod approached with his items.  
“I thought you lot preferred stronger stuff than this,” the woman drawled, slowly entering the price of the beer on the cash machine, her cigarette dropping ashes between the buttons.

“Uh,” Flash started, pushing his sunglasses up over his forehead to better see through the smoke. His eyes darted between the thin lines around her lips and the brick red lipstick marks on the butt of her cig and the matching red radio on the counter behind her. He had no idea what she’d meant, but it didn’t sound all that good.

“Me and my friend just came in today. We… we’re new here,” he added, hoping that it might help.

Whether it was what he’d said or his accent or the novelty tea towel (for his gran, of course) he’d just put down next to the drinks, the woman’s expression seemed to soften a little, and she gave him a brief smile, punching in the rest of the items one by one. There was a strip of postcards hanging behind her, a variety of gaudy scenes from Brighton. A little souvenir couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Could I have a card too, please,” Flash asked, pointing to the strip. “Whichever you’d like, ma’am.”

The woman smiled at him, somewhat reluctantly warming up to the unusual mod, and quickly picked a card, packing it into a brown paper bag alongside the beer and the tea towel.

“Lovely day for it,” she said, leaning back against the counter while Flash fished his wallet out of his pocket.

“Yes, it is,” the mod smiled back at her, placing the change on the counter. “Good weather for driving.”

“That yours, then?” she nodded in the general direction of the window. It was difficult to see exactly what she meant through the smoke and the window display – Flash could just about make out the white shine of his moped next to his best friend, who was sitting on the low wall where he’d left him, kicking his legs and no doubt trying and failing at talking to some nearby girls in sundresses – so Flash said ‘yes’ and decided it was probably true enough in either case.

“You’ll want to park that somewhere safe, we’re expecting a lot of people this weekend.”

Ah, Matilda it was. Flash hadn’t thought that far, but it seemed pretty obvious now that the woman had mentioned it. It wasn’t like he could take her down to the beach or leave her on a street corner and hope for the best. Fortunately, the now-friendly shop lady was one step ahead of him.

“Tell you what, love – park it out back by the bins. That ought to keep it out of harm’s way. You know how some of y-, some of these youths can get.”

“Really?” Flash blurted out, before remembering his manners. “Thank so much, that would be very helpful.”

“Just you keep yourself and your friend out of trouble,” the woman replied with a matronly waggle of her finger. Then something outside seemed to catch her eye, her expression suddenly serious.

“And stay away from them boys there,” she added sombrely, eyes fixed on a group by the shop window.

Flash turned around, trying to follow her line of sight. He hadn’t paid too much attention to the group of young men loitering outside the shop, huddled near several parked motorcycles – there looked to be maybe five or six of them, around him and Gav’s age, all dressed in ratty jeans and matching leather jackets, hair slicked up in barely-tamed quiffs. It was obvious what group they belonged to, but Flash wasn’t overly worried.

“Oh, no need to worry about us, ma’am. We haven’t got any issues with rockers,” he said breezily, picking up the paper bag. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

The woman only gave him a thin-lipped look.

“That might be so,” she said carefully. “But you’ll do well to keep away from them. They’re bad news.”

-

Flash shouldered the door open out onto the street, holding the paper bag in one arm while he rummaged through it with the other. Finally, he got hold of the postcard and pulled it out. The shop lady had chosen well, a suitably garish photo of Brighton Pavilion by night, illuminated in different colours, with a cheerful “Greetings from Brighton!” across it in white, loopy letters. Flash smiled to himself, turning the glossy card over in his hand. Maybe they could go see the Pavilion a bit later, when the lights came on, if it wasn’t too late, of course. Or maybe they should go before they went down to the beach, or they could go for a walk on the pier, or take Matilda for a spin around town while it was so nice and sunny. He really wasn’t sure what the woman had meant about keeping safe – there was no way the bank holiday crowd could be that bad, not here. She’d seemed terribly serious about it, too, more than just an older lady worried about young men making arses of themselves, but as far as Flash could see, there were mostly families around. And the lads outside the shop hadn’t looked all that-

A sharp whistle cut through Flash’s musings.

The mod looked up from the postcard, turning to where the sound had come from – somewhere behind him, he thought, by the…

“Oi! Mod boy!”

...by the bikes.

One of the rockers, a tall, lanky man who looked like a poor man’s Gene Vincent, was grinning at Flash from where he was leant against the shop wall, a nasty glint in his eye.

“Come down from the Valleys, have we? What, have you run out of sheep to shag?”

The group laughed uproariously, like it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard. Flash only stared at them, cautiously moving toward Gav and Matilda in case the gang was looking for a fight. Luckily, it seemed like the boys were content to stay by the windowsill, bumming smokes off each other and slapping each other on the back and giggling at not-quite-Gene’s quip.

 _Almost_ all of them.

One of the rockers stood out. Not only was he notably smaller than the other boys, easily a head shorter than their lanky leader, but where the other rockers all had dark hair, shiny with pomade, his was almost peroxide blonde.

And he was staring right at Flash.

The mod suddenly wished he’d put his sunglasses back on – he felt exposed, almost naked with those bright blue eyes boring into him from across the street. There was an unreadable smile tugging at the corner of the blonde rocker’s mouth.

“Don’t pay them any mind, Flash, they’re just decking you,” Gav said casually, hopping down from the wall with a toothy grin on his face that did little to put Flash’s mind at ease. He thought he could still feel the shorter rocker’s eyes on him, burning through his parka.

Perhaps there had been something to what the woman in the shop had said after all.

-

A few hours later, Flash had managed to shake off most of the unease from the interaction with the corner shop rockers, though there was still a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that something wasn’t quite right. The two mods were on the beach, sitting on their coats while they drank the tins Flash had bought and ate the ham sandwiches Gav’s mum had insisted on packing for them. The weather was still lovely and mild, and the beach was jam-packed with people, crowding into any gap they could find, between lounge chairs and blankets. The number of youths had also steadily increased since they’d sat down – some in sharp suits and others in motorcycle boots and tell-tale jackets.

 _Was this what the corner shop lady meant_ , Flash thought, taking another nervous sip from his can. _Or was it just the boys outside?_

Flash wasn’t stupid. He was well aware of the rivalry that existed between rockers and people like himself, regardless of how he might feel about the matter himself. Him and Gav hadn’t had any problems with rockers themselves – it was difficult to when there were no rockers around – but that didn’t mean something wasn’t going to happen, and with every new face, he felt himself tense a little more. The prospect of a fight wasn’t a problem in itself. He could carry his own, if it came to it – while might not have any rockers back in Brynmawr, there was still plenty of trouble to be had, usually in the form of burly miner’s boys who’d sneer at them and call them ‘ponce’ the moment they stepped into the local in their pointy Italian shoes – but the more he thought about it, it had seemed like the woman had been talking about something else. Something specific, not just a general youth brawl.

_Stay away from them boys there._

Blue eyes boring into him, an unreadable smile.

Gav was suspiciously excited as well. The stocky man kept turning around with a familiar, slightly unhinged look in his eyes, like he could hardly sit still. It seemed as if he knew something Flash didn’t.

It wasn’t long until ‘something’ began.

At first, it was only a small scuffle at the far end of the beach, near where Gav and Flash had first parked Matilda, but it quickly spilled down the promenade stairs onto the beach itself. As soon as it touched the pebbly sand, the fight grew, rumbling slowly towards Flash and Gav until it was suddenly surrounding them. It was absolute chaos – there were people everywhere, a whirlpool of leather and snappy blazers, falling over each other as the rest of the guests tried to escape the avalanche of youths. And in the middle of it all were two ill-prepared Welsh mods.

Or was it more like one? Flash wasn’t so unkind as to think Gav had suggested their bank holiday trip just so he could have a fight on the beach, but he didn’t exactly seem unhappy about the turn of events either. If anything, the man seemed stoked, and Flash was reminded of the countless pub fights he’d had to drag his best friend out of in the past, kicking and snarling like a wolverine. Had he known about this, or did he have some kind of sixth sense for brawls?

No time for speculations. Dodging a flying beach chair, Flash managed to spring to his feet and get his coat on, turning to shout at Gav that they needed to –

It was too late. Bargain-bin Gene Vincent was standing in front of Gav, a tire-iron in his hand, smirking down at the shorter man like there wasn’t a battle raging around them.

“We meet again, _taff_ ,” Not-quite-Gene damned near smiled. The rest of the corner shop rockers loomed behind him – the group must have kept their eyes on the two mods ever since Flash had gone to buy beer, though he didn’t know how they’d managed to find them in the chaos. Or _why_. Flash felt a chill go down his spine. Had the lanky man’s teeth always been that sharp? It had been difficult to see earlier, but surely Flash would have remembered if they were, wouldn’t he? And when had the sun begun to disappear, leaving the beach grey and cold, the rest of the crowd on the beach moving as though they couldn’t see them? He needed to do something, get Gav and run before something really bad happened, but before Flash could move, his mate had flung himself at the gangly rocker, fists first, and then everything became a bit of a blur.

The next thing Flash was aware of was that someone was dragging him away from the fight by the back of his collar, winding through the mass of people with surprising ease. For a confused second, he thought it might be Gav pulling him to safety, before he saw the rapidly diminishing shape of his mate and the gang in the distance. At least Gav seemed to be winning. Disoriented, Flash watched his own legs dragging against the ground, arms flapping uselessly by his sides, the noise of the brawl becoming fainter and fainter.

Suddenly, they stopped. Flash fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, the stones clattering beneath him. The mod had a moment to take in his surroundings – they were at the other side of the beach, in the shade of the pier, the faint sun peeking through the floorboards, just out of earshot from the fight – then someone was on top of him, pushing him down into the ground.

A pair of startlingly blue eyes were staring down at him. It was the blonde rocker – the man was straddling him, legs on either side of Flash’s hips, wrists pinned down above his head. At last, Flash’s brain caught up with everything, and he twisted beneath the rocker, the stony ground cold and hard against his back as he fought, trying to buck the man off him or wrench his arms free, but the grip around his wrists was remarkably strong. It didn’t seem like the blonde man needed to spend any energy on holding Flash down, no matter how much the mod struggled, even though they were roughly equal in size and build. He seemed almost amused at it, eyes shining in the half-dark beneath the pier. The rocker smiled that odd smile again, and added insult to injury by taking both of Flash’s wrists in one hand, bringing the other down to the mod’s collar and calmly popping the top buttons on his shirt like he had all the time in the world. Flash went still, panting for breath. Was this it? Was he about to die here, under Brighton Pier, throat cut by some leather-clad asshole he’d never even spoken to? He swallowed as the rocker stroked a thumb over the now-exposed skin of Flash’s neck, his pulse pounding just beneath his skin, scared stiff.

There was a glint of something sharp - Flash squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself – a burst of pain, slicing into his neck, and then-

Warmth. Indescribable heat rushing through him, and then a wave of pleasure like nothing he’d ever felt before. His blood was singing with it, every nerve in his body molten. Distantly, Flash realised the rocker had let go of his wrists, one cold hand stroking up his side beneath his jacket while the other held his face still as he continued to press his mouth against his neck. Flash was arching mindlessly beneath him, legs kicking against the ground as he clutched at the other man, moaning raggedly. The rocker only pressed him further into the sand, biting down harder. The stripes of light from the boardwalk were bleeding into one another, Flash’s vision blurring, his hands grabbing at anything they could, and he felt like he was sinking, everything slowly going dark, until there was nothing, just him and the stranger above him and the heat...

-

Flash woke to the sound waves crashing softly onto the beach and someone jabbing him in the side.

“Mhh?” Flash managed, opening his eyes blearily. He felt like death warmed over, or more likely like someone who had spent the night sleeping on a bunch of rocks. Standing over him was an old man and an equally ancient dog, both staring down at Flash with expressions which were roughly one third worry and two thirds annoyance.

“I said, are you alright, son?” the old man asked, somehow exasperated, prodding him in the chest with his cane. The dog pulled at its leash, rummaging around Flash’s legs.

“I…” Flash begun when something caught his eye. He looked down at his chest, where the old man had prodded him, and to his shock, he was covered in blood – a maroon trail running from the crook of his neck down the breast of his blazer and his half-open shirt front.

“I’m fine sir. Thank you.” Flash said slowly, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s – It’s not as bad as it looks. Someone must just have nicked me.”

He heard himself say it more than felt it, eyes fixed on the dark stain. Whatever had happened last night was shrouded in a fog – he didn’t feel any pain apart from a slight discomfort in the side of his neck, but his memories were splintered, a loose series of sensations and images.

Not that it mattered. The old man was already hobbling away, the dog trailing behind him as he muttered something about disgrace and youth these days. Flash pushed himself up until he was sitting, trying to shake the cottony feeling out of his head. It had to be early still, the sun not far above the horizon and the beach mostly empty of people – it seemed even more vast than it had the previous day, pale and cold, the odd person hurrying past the mod on their way to work, hands in their pockets and their collars turned up against the wind. Flash looked at them, dazed, and realised he didn’t feel cold at all, even though he’d been out all night, his shirt still half unbuttoned beneath his open parka. He barely felt the breeze on his skin. Once again, he tried to recall the events from the previous night, digging through the mud. Fragment by fragment, it was coming back to him, falling into place – the rockers and the tire iron; his heels dragging against the sand; laying on his back beneath the pier, a weight on top of him. Piercing blue eyes. An incredible heat. Flash wrapped his arms around his knees and ran his tongue over his tongue over his teeth absentmindedly, feeling the stubby yet sharp ends of his canines against it. The fog was beginning to lift.

-

It had seemed like the only thing to do, so after a while, Flash had picked up his coat and gone to collect Matilda, still safely parked behind the corner shop, feeling like he was floating besides himself the whole way. By some miracle, he’d found Gav soon after – though the man hadn’t been hard to spot, looking worse for wear and near tears with worry about his friend. He'd thrown his arms around Flash, almost sobbing as he told him how he’d been wandering the streets all morning, looking for him, that he’d been about to call the police when they’d bumped into each other. Then he’d noticed the blood and the far-away look in Flash’s eyes, and they hadn’t said much after that. Flash had bought Gav a coffee at the first open greasy spoon they’d found, where they’d sat in heavy silence on either side of a sticky Respatex table, Flash’s parka only partially hiding his bloodstained shirt. Gav kept looking at it, eyes darting down over his coffee mug, but he hadn’t asked about it. Like he somehow knew. Then they had climbed onto Matilda and begun the long, silent drive home to Wales.

That had been many, many years ago, of course.

Flash had stayed at home in Brynmawr to begin with, because what else could he do. It wasn’t like his life had ended – not really. He still walked and talked and looked more or less the way he had before Brighton, and he still had people who cared and depended on him, so he went home and pretended that everything was the way it had been, until it finally became too difficult to hide the fact that he didn’t age. Until finding food became a problem. He'd moved around for a while, driving Matilda where the road took him, before eventually ending up in London like everything seemed to. London had been good, for the most part. Safe. It was easy to disappear into the noise of the big city, just another face amongst others, another misfit in a place full of them. Though he couldn't allow himself to get complacent. There was a limit to close you could get to someone, or how long you could work in the same place before people began asking questions you weren't prepared to answer. Flash guessed people like him weren't really supposed to hold office jobs - if you were to believe the books, people like him were supposed to live in dusty old mansions or gothic castles, dressing in capes and scaring peasants, and maybe some did. But that wasn't for him. Not for old Morgan Webster. And so he'd move on, flitting from job to job, from flat to flat, while the years passed with terrible ease.

Naturally, some had been better than others. The 70s had been fine, the 80s had been pretty rubbish (Flash had yet to understand the appeal of the New Romantics), but the 90s had made up for it with the Brit-revival - better hair and better music and Flash's old polos back in fashion. Perhaps it was counterintuitive, but it had become important not to lose himself in the passing of time and the constant struggle not to reveal himself. To keep himself grounded in his old self, his home and family and the person he had been before Brighton Beach, so he clung onto what he could without drawing too much attention to himself - the old haircut, the sunglasses, the parka he'd worn on that fateful morning.

With time it had even become an asset.

Wrestling had come to him by pure chance, an aquaintance of an aquaintance offering him an opportunity he'd gladly taken. It had become a lifesaver - or, well, some kind of saver - a wild, colourful world offering not just a change of pace and scenery, but also a chance at respite, to use his new abilities, his stamina and agility, to their utmost capacity without anyone batting an eyelid, to hide in plain sight amongst far more outlandish gimmicks. and he'd become damned good at it too, always careful to balance his performances: well enough to keep him bookes, yet not so good that the spolight remained on him for too long. He'd found his place.

Tonight was another night, another match, and Flash was sitting in another locker room, wrapping up his wrists. He was quiet, lost in thought as he wound the white tape round and round his hand. He’d found himself thinking about the blonde man more than usual lately. Where he was, what he was doing, if he remembered what happened in Brighton at all. Though it could be a lonely life, Flash had never mourned what had happened to him. He’d never thought too much about it, to be honest. It had just kind of happened. He’d never blamed Gav for it – Gav did plenty of that on his own – he couldn’t even find it him to be angry with the man who had done it to him. By all accounts, he ought to hate the rocker, but he couldn’t. On the contrary. Sometimes, when the loneliness got to him, he’d find himself staring at the old postcard of Brighton Pavilion by night, now wrinkled and faded, tucked away in his kit bag, full of some indescribable feeling, his memories of the night crystal clear.

It was silly, really. He didn’t even know the man’s name, yet he had so many questions. Had he brought anyone else the same fate he’d brought Flash? Had he been the first? Had he had a reason? Why there? Why _him_? The locker room door opened with a squeak, two sets of footsteps entering. Flash didn’t need to look up to know one was the local promoter, but the other pair was unfamiliar.

“Evenin’, Flash,” the promoter greeted him, stopping next to the bench where Flash's trusty old parka laid waiting. “Thought you might want to meet the guy you’ll be working with tonight.”

“Thanks, Dave,” Flash said, tearing off the end of the tape and securing it to his wrist before lifting his head.

In some ways, it was strange that it had taken so long for them to meet again. It wasn't a big world, especially for people like them, but there he was. Standing in front of him. The blonde was a little duller than it had been, he'd ditched the leather jacket for a hoodie, and Flash wasn't sure the beard would have flown back in 1964, but other than that, he was the same as he had been. Wordless, Flash looked up, meeting those eyes that had rooted him to the ground on Brighton Beach, right before everything had changed. They were still as bright and blue, full of recognition.

Flash smiled at him, and the other man smiled back.

“Long time no see.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of mod slang in this one, just because I found it very amusing. To 'deck' someone meant to make fun of them, and to 'gab up' meant to dress up. The shop lady's comment about "stronger stuff" is a reference to mods allegedly preferring amphetamines to drinking. 'Taff' is a derogatory term for a Welsh person. And the Battle of Brighton Beach really did happen on the 1964 May Bank Holiday - look it up, the footage is pretty incredible.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
